


at the seams

by humanveil



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Omega Din Djarin, Post-Season/Series 02, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, this is stupid soft but i don't care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28620759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: “Your ship,” Boba explains. “I saw your supplies. This long without them…”
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 21
Kudos: 679





	at the seams

**Author's Note:**

> what’s up i’ve been thinking about this since the razor crest got blown up and i couldn’t fight the urge to write it anymore, _soooooooooo_
> 
> \--
> 
> mando'a used: 
> 
> beroya - bounty hunter  
> buy'ce - helmet  
> udesii - calm down/take it easy  
> ad'ika - kid/child/boy/etc. but also sweetie/darling  
> mesh'la - beautiful  
> hettyc - burning  
> elek - yes  
> gedet'ye - please  
> vor entye - thank you

Boba smells it in the cockpit of Slave I, as the _beroya_ stands behind the co-pilot’s seat, hands clasped around the headrest as he fights the urge to fidget. It’s faint, still. Could have gone unnoticed, had Boba not seen the inside of the Razor Crest before its destruction.

The heat suppressants hidden aside his armour had been most curious. In the midst of battle, there’d been no time to contemplate what they might mean. Now, however…

“Sit.”

Boba’s voice is gentle yet firm. He spares the _beroya_ a glance, but shifts his gaze back to the galaxy before him, waiting patiently for his companion’s obedience. It comes eventually, after a moment of contemplation. Boba allows him his reservations—he can sympathise with the turmoil the _beroya_ is in. He may not have lost a child, but he has lost a father; as he considers the broken man beside him, he doubts they’re as different as they seem.

“You never gave me a name,” he says.

His answer is dismissive, almost defensive. “Most people call me Mando,” the _beroya_ says, his knee bouncing with aimless energy. Boba allows it for a moment before he reaches across his seat, his gloved hand falling to the _beroya’s_ knee and stilling the movement at once.

“I’m not most people,” Boba says. He turns his head, and looks to where his companion is watching him. His voice now has an edge to it, the words an order. “Your name, Omega.”

The _beroya’s_ breath hitches. It’s barely discernible through the helmet, but Boba is familiar with these sorts of things; he can read the shock in the rigid lines of the _beroya’s_ body, can smell it in the unease that slips into the omega’s scent. Gently, he squeezes the knee beneath his hand, fingers seeking what little remains uncovered by beskar, the act meant to convey comfort.

The _beroya’s_ only reaction is to tilt his head. As he’d boarded the ship—face bare and child absent—Boba had only caught a glimpse of the man beneath the Mandalorian armour. Still, he can imagine the expression. Those brown eyes squinted in suspicion.

“How did you know?” the _beroya_ asks, voice full of a false bravado.

Boba sighs and straightens. A brat, then, he thinks.

It only adds to his intrigue. 

“Your ship,” he explains. “I saw your supplies. This long without them…” He trails off, sure that he doesn’t need to spell it out. Stress was known to induce heat, particularly amongst those who fought so hard against it. But an omega who’d recently lost his child, his home? Who was struggling with his Creed? Boba didn’t need a doctor to explain what was going to happen.

The _beroya_ shifts uncomfortably, defensively. “I can get more on Navarro,” he says, sure, and Boba hums low in his throat, the tell-tale signs of omegan heat stronger by the second.

“It might be too late for that,” he warns.

The _beroya_ doesn’t respond.

* * *

The plan had been simple: Return Dune and the _beroya_ to Navarro, Moff Gideon in tow, and be on their way. As Boba prepares to land, however, he knows things will not go so smoothly.

As he’d expected, the _beroya_ had grown more restless by the second, grief and an oncoming heat making him antsy. Irritable. The unease the omega emitted was palpable, its scent almost as strong as that of his growing need. Boba may not be the galaxy’s most traditional alpha, but even he could not remain unaffected. Not when it spoke to the remnants of his protective nature.

As Slave I settles on the ground, Boba prepares to meet Fennec in the cargo hold. Beside him, the _beroya_ moves to stand, too.

Boba stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “No.”

“What?”

“You’re staying here.”

The _beroya_ shrugs him off, visor turning to face him. The agitation is obvious. “You can’t order me around just because I’m an omega,” he says. “We’re not—”

Boba cuts him off with another hand on his shoulder, this time pressing down with a firm pressure. “At ease, Princess,” he says, voice gruff. Almost amused. “It’s for your own good. You’re not walking out of here smelling like a jogan ripe for plucking.”

“I just need—”

“They won’t work. Not now,” Boba tells him. He tries to be gentle, aware that the _beroya_ is obviously struggling with his current state, but he’s not sure he succeeds. “Or do you want to risk it?”

A moment passes, and then another. At the _beroya’s_ resigned silence, Boba allows his hands to drop back to his sides.

“I’ll get you what you need,” he says. “I give you my word.”

The _beroya_ doesn’t speak, but his helmet tilts as if to nod. It’s all the permission Boba needs.

* * *

Fennec doesn’t need much instruction. She’d smelt the omega, had understood when he’d informed her they were going to make a pit stop and offered only the flicker of a smirk as they’d parted ways, she following Dune while Boba started his search for supplies.

It had been some time since Boba had seen an omega through their heat, but he remembered the basics well enough: Nesting blankets, food and drink, an inflatable knot, should the omega wish to see to it himself. Suppressants and scent blockers for the _beroya_ to use, after.

By the time he returns to his ship, the _beroya’s_ scent has thickened. Boba swallows around the sweetness of it, the way it makes something low in his stomach stir. He’s grateful for his helmet, the beskar a much-needed blocker. 

“Took your time,” the _beroya_ greets. He lies on a bunk, no longer in the cockpit, his body curled in on itself and arm wound around his stomach in an obvious sign of discomfort. The beskar is discarded, his armour laid at his feet, his clothes and the helmet all he’d kept on.

Boba chuckles, a quiet thing. “What happened to your nice manners?” he teases.

The _beroya_ doesn’t respond, just fidgets where he lies. _Cramps,_ Boba thinks, grateful he’d thought to pick up painkillers. He drops the bag of supplies at his feet and moves closer to the omega, his hand reaching to lightly touch his chin. Direct his gaze upward.

“How do you want to do this?” he asks.

The _beroya_ simply stares. “Do what?”

“Your heat.” Boba regards him for a minute, contemplates. He’d heard of those who avoid their nature, supress it all their lives. Surely… “Have you experienced one before?”

The _beroya_ is still for a moment, but a tentative nod eventually follows. He offers no other details.

Boba sighs. “And?”

“I was young,” the _beroya_ says. “A member of my clan—” He stops, shakes his head. “It’s been a long time. I—I don’t—”

He cuts himself off, and Boba swallows around another sigh. He motions for the _beroya_ to stand.

“Come,” he orders. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

* * *

Offering his quarters to an omega in heat was, perhaps, not the brightest idea, but there was nothing to be done about it. No other area would suffice, not with how rapidly things were progressing, and Boba wanted it over with sooner rather than later. Knew the _beroya_ did, as well.

He could see it, the _beroya_ falling deeper and deeper into his omegan nature, his scent inescapable as his heat overtook him completely. Where he had been agitated, irritable before, a desperation had started to seep into the _beroya’s_ nature, a compliance. Boba had laid the omega on his bunk with ease and left the supplies at his feet, his hand returning to the _buy’ce’s_ chin.

“If you want me,” he’d said, “I’m willing. You need only call out.”

The _beroya_ had made a noise in response, the sound too low for the _buy’ce_ to pick up, and with one last lingering look, Boba had left him.

* * *

The request comes eventually, as Boba had thought it would. Even before the _beroya’s_ nature was revealed, he had thought there might be _something_ there, a mutual admiration, a brewing desire. Had found himself quietly hoping for it.

It was no matter now. The voice that reaches out to him through the comms is desperate, filled with desire. “ _Fett…_ ” it says, breath heavy and voice thick. It could almost be a whine. “ _Please._ ”

Boba doesn’t need to be asked twice. He is half-hard already, the _beroya’s_ scent alone enough to stir his arousal. It only grows as he moves through Slave I. 

He finds the omega laid bare in a makeshift nest, the blankets Boba had bought thrown over his bunk. Gone are the _beroya’s_ clothes, his helmet. They leave behind flushed, sweaty skin and a face torn between pleasure and pain, the eyes that look to Boba as he enters the room wide and wanting. Boba approaches carefully, his fingers already reaching to stroke the _beroya’s_ forehead.

“It was too hot,” the omega explains. Even as he leans into Boba’s touch, his unease at being without his _buy’ce_ is obvious. “I _couldn’t_ —can’t—”

“ _Udesii_ ,” Boba soothes, gloved fingers petting the _beroya’s_ hair.

The omega shuts his mouth at once, brown eyes searching Boba’s visor. Boba shifts to remove his helmet, nostrils flaring as the full force of the omega’s scent hits him. It’s heavy, here; intoxicating. Made worse by the slick-stained sheets.

Boba eyes them as he steps back to remove his armour, a series of seedy thoughts filling his head as he imagines the omega in here alone, four fingers deep as he tries to find release. He bends to lie his armour down, his mouth pulling into a smirk at the sight of the inflatable knot pushed aside.

“Wasn’t enough,” the _beroya_ tells him, following his every move, and Boba’s smirk widens.

“Don’t worry, _ad’ika_ ,” he says. “I’ll give you what you need.”

His bunk is not quite built for two grown men, but they manage all the same. Boba kneels between the _beroya’s_ parted legs and grabs him by the thigh, gentle yet firm as he moves him into a position comfortable for both of them, his hands running up the omega’s legs before settling at his entrance. There’s no need for foreplay, teasing, preparation, and yet Boba still brushes his fingers over the _beroya’s_ opening, watches as the man beneath him squirms, desperate, a plea on the tip of his tongue.

Boba doesn’t force it out of him. Instead, he pushes forward, two fingers slipping into the _beroya_ with ease. The omega gasps, head turning as if to press into the sheets, hide his pretty little face, and Boba has to squeeze his own cock with his free hand to aid the ache.

“Easy, easy,” he soothes, even as something animalistic growls inside of him. He thrusts his fingers in and out. Uses his free hand to grab the omega’s hair, the soft curls sticking to his skin with sweat as he uses the grip to hold the _beroya_ in place. “That’s it.” A third finger slips in beside the others, Boba watching carefully as the omega squirms, his eyelids fluttering shut as he rocks against Boba’s touch. “ _Mesh’la_ ,” Boba rumbles, and reveals in the whine it elicits.

The _beroya_ falls apart easily— _too_ easily. _Touch-starved_ , Boba thinks. He’s been there before and knows the signs, especially when they’re so _obvious._ A few gentle touches and the body beneath him starts to shake, over-sensitive and eager. A few more, and the _beroya_ has to bite his lip to quiet his reactions, his body arching into Boba’s touch, seeking _more._

“Enough of that,” Boba orders, reaching to pull the _beroya’s_ lip from between his teeth. The omega whimpers but complies, rocking against him, almost frantic. Boba rewards the obedience by running his free hand over the omega’s abdomen, fingers wrapping around his cock and pumping lightly. “Needy little thing, aren’t you, Princess?” he asks. Watches as heat blooms high across the _beroya’s_ cheeks, his face sinfully expressive without beskar as a barrier.

“ _Alpha,”_ the omega says, almost sobs. He tries to hide it but can’t, not with how he lies on his back. Boba finds the effort oddly endearing. “ _Hettyc_.”

“I’ve got you,” Boba assures him, twisting his fingers. His own cock is hard, aching; desire thrums beneath his skin. He shifts where he kneels and pulls the omega closer, removing his hands to tease the _beroya’s_ entrance with his cock instead. “Is this what you want?” he asks, amused when a growl bubbles in the omega’s throat. There’s no immediate answer, and so Boba squeezes his partner’s thigh and asks again.

“ _Elek_ ,” the _beroya_ says, gasps, his eyes unable to meet Boba’s. “Yes, _please_ ,” he adds, trying to press against him.

Boba decides to put them both out of their misery.

They _beroya’s_ breath hitches as Boba sinks inside of him, cock stretching him wide as a choked moan escapes his throat. Boba watches, listens, his own breath heavy as he starts with easy, rhythmic thrusts. Going too fast too soon won’t do them any good, not when the _beroya_ is so out of practice. Not when he gasps at every touch, craving everything Boba has to give but struggling with the words to ask for it. Boba gives him his adjustment time, murmuring in Mando’a as he waits for the body beneath him to stop shaking.

It never does. Even as he leans down, nuzzles his face against the _beroya’s_ neck, the tremor remains. Even as Boba comforts him, tries to quiet him, even as he fucks him, the pressure growing with every thrust, it’s there. In fact, it seems to only grow stronger. Steadier.

 _Over-sensitive,_ Boba thinks again. Poor thing. He leans to kiss the _beroya,_ and the sound the omega makes as Boba’s lips brush his makes Boba wonder if it’s something he’s ever done before. The clumsy way the _beroya_ kisses back tells him that it isn’t.

“ _Mesh’la_ ,” he says again as he pulls away. Close as he is, Boba can see the _beroya’s_ damp lashes, the liquid gathered at the corner of his eyes, the tracks that stain his cheeks. It kicks his alpha instincts into over-drive, a protectiveness stirring deep within him. He shushes the _beroya_ once more and quickens the rock of his hips, aiming to give his omega release. _Relief._

It doesn’t take much. The _beroya_ turns boneless in his arms, a puddle of pleasure and burning need. He tries to meet Boba’s trusts but struggles, tries to speak but can only mumble, a string of obscenities thrown in amongst, _Alpha, knot_ , and _please, gedet’ye, please._

Who was Boba to deny such sweetly-worded requests? With precise thrusts, he brings the _beroya_ to climax, groaning appreciatively as his omega clenches around him, his name hissed between a stuttered breath, a choked sob. Boba follows not far behind, spilling into the _beroya_ with quiet praise, his mouth seeking to kiss away the tears that slip down his omega’s cheeks.

“ _Vor entye,”_ the _beroya_ says as Boba’s knot begins to fill him, his voice barely more than a breath. He repeats it: once, twice, three times. Boba leans down, kisses him to quiet him.

“The pleasure is mine,” he says, running a hand along his omega’s waist. He settles it on a hip and squeezes gently, shifting to rest his forehead against the _beroya’s._

The shiver the act elicits does not go unnoticed.

* * *

Later, in the quiet dark of Salve I, as the _beroya_ rests with his head against Boba’s chest, Boba asks once more: “Your name, Omega.”

The _beroya_ doesn’t move, but he does speak it against Boba’s skin, his lips brushing over scarred flesh. “Din,” he confesses, eventually. “Din Djarin.” 

Boba rolls the name across his tongue and rewards the _beroya_ with a hand on his nape, his fingers sliding up Din’s neck and into the mess of short, brown curls. At the _beroya_ ’ _s_ pleased sigh, Boba lets slip an amused hum. “You need to take better care of yourself, Din Djarin,” he says, punctuating the words with the scrape of his nails against Din’s scalp. 

The _beroya_ doesn’t respond, only shifts closer.

**Author's Note:**

> i originally posted this on anon since i rarely write or read a/b/o and was nervousssss about doing it, but !! i sat on it for a while and decided it’s not a complete abomination, so here we are. thank you to everyone who left kudos or a comment, i very much appreciate it 💕✨


End file.
